


With Our Backs to the Wall

by glowstick_of_destiny



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:12:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, it's not okay! None of this is fucking okay.” And he’s back to pulverizing the throw pillow.  “The man I was when I first came back to Gotham?  He never even would’ve considered this.  But now I am, God help me. And I hate that I’m learning how to work in this city, that now I understand the only way to change things is by wading through lies and bodies and smiling the whole damn time.  I hate that I want anything enough to even consider being part of that. Even if the thing I want is an end to all of that." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes the good thing is also the ugly thing.  When Loeb takes away Jim's badge, he has a choice to make and path to choose.  But when Galavan decides it's time to write his name into the legacy of Gotham, he sets into motion a series of events that no one in Gotham is prepared to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pocketful of Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Canon divergence basically whenever the Gotham writing team did something that I didn't like. Which was often. (I've tried to explain if something was different as this knowledge becomes available to whoever's POV we're in, but if you have any questions, let me know.)
> 
> Happy to talk in the comments or on my tumblr (sometimetodayforpreference).
> 
> (I know, I know. I still haven’t finished Only If for a Night. But I work best when I’ve got a few projects going a once because I have a short attention span, so when I get bored with or stuck on one, I can go work on another. Buuut I’m trying not to start any more longer pieces before I finish that and this one. If you have any requests for one-shots, though, let me know in the comments, and I’ll see if I can’t make that what I work on when I need a break.)

Sure, skiving off work at 2pm to go home and take a bubble bath is an indulgence. But when you're the owner of an art gallery, you get to decide what hours are in the best interest of your business. 

And god knows Barbara getting a break right now is in everyone's best interest. 

She'd spent all morning smiling til her face hurt at a client who she'd rather put six feet under than talk to. 

Oily smile, watch that could put a kid through college, conversational manner that said he wasn't listening to a damn thing you'd said, just waiting for his turn to speak. He'd reminded her of her father. Which was not a good start. 

And then he'd started hitting on her. 

She'd stopped wearing the ring, after the whole thing with the Ogre. Because the whole pretending to be engaged to your best friend to ensure continued access to your conservative parents' financial support and business connections for your gallery, that had worked great. Right up until the point where the Ogre had taken her to her parents' house and told her to kill them, or he'd kill her. 

They were supposed to be out that night. They weren't. 

They were still alive-- she had Jim to thank for that-- but the whole thing had landed her back in therapy with a laundry list of issues to work through and blown the whole engagement story wide open. 

Anyway, it meant no more help from her parents, no more wearing her ring to work. And right then, she'd wished she had it back. Although who knows if that would've stopped him. 

But she'd given him a dazzling smile and batted her lashes and bit her tongue, because she needed his support, or her business might very well go under. 

And it had paid off. 

Because now she has a fat stack of papers with his signature, pledging five-year backing as an investor for the art gallery. And another month before she has to see his sorry face again. 

And now she can celebrate with a Lush bath bomb, a new coat of Linkin Park After Dark nail polish, and a rewatch of Die Hard. 

It's a classic. And there's just something cathartic about watching Bruce Willis set the wrongs of the world right with a few bullets and a lot of one-liners. 

Objectively, Bruce Willis isn't even that attractive. He's got a receding hairline, even here, in the prime of his career. He's got a lot of chest hair happening, and that's just never done it for her. 

But he's scruffy and irreverent. Not a wordsmith by any stretch of the imagination, but when he does have something to say, sarcastic, honest, and blunt. Dedicated to a cause, and to his morals, but with a serious attitude problem. And a problem with authority figures of all stripes. But still the guy who steps up and does what's right when no one else will, damn the consequences. 

She thinks of Renee, of Jim. So maybe she has a type. Sue her. 

They're right about to push Alan Rickman out a window when the phone rings. 

Barbara nearly knocks the iPad off the bathroom wall as she sits up fast, scrabbles for her cell with the hand that doesn't have wet nail polish. Which creates a small splash, right over the edge of the tub. Right onto her phone and the Vogue magazine right next to it. 

Jim's name is on the caller ID. Of fucking course. She doesn't bother with pleasantries, just picks up with, "This better be good." 

"Barbara!" All affection and familiarity, like he hasn't gone off the grid the last few weeks to the point where she'd been concerned enough to consider calling Leslie just to make sure he was still breathing. "What's the address for-- the address for Wayne-- you know that thing that's like a house, only like a house and all its friends hanging out together 'cause it's like ten houses--" 

"Manor?" She says drily. Apparently she should have. 

"Yeah! Yeah, that one." 

"You heading there now?" A more helpful question than "are you seriously calling me, day drunk, to get information you could get off the internet, would _know_ you could get off the internet if you weren't so far gone?" Because that, she already knows the answer to. 

"Yeah--" 

"Where are you?" Outside, she'd guess from the background noise. So either just walking out of a bar, or already on his way to walk, no doubt halfway across the city, to Wayne Manor. 

"I'm on my way there--" Of course he was. "I just need the address--" 

Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose instead of swearing. There'll be time for that later. "Where exactly are you _right now_?" 

Jim pauses, considering the question. "There's a lot of trees--" 

"What about a cross street? Or any signs?" 

"Just trees. I was gonna take a shortcut--" 

Jesus fucking Christ. "Ok, stay there. I'm gonna come pick you up." 

"You'll give me a ride there?" 

"Sure." 

.x. 

Herding Jim into the passenger seat is a piece of cake after finding him in the middle of the People's Park. 

He’d been quiet as they walked to the car, and she glances over at him as she puts the car in drive. Even nowhere near sober, his mouth's set in a hard line. She knows that face. It's the "something's seriously wrong, but I'm not gonna to tell you what because I'm a man" face. The first part of a fun game of "guess what's wrong while I internalize my manly man feelings and refuse to give you clues" process. 

It was gonna be a long ride. 

A few minutes in silence. And then, "No, no. It's that way. See?" He points through the windshield at a street sign. 

_Now_ he decides to have a sense of direction. 

"We're not going to the manor." 

Jim looks at her, stricken, like he's a five-year-old and she's told him Santa wasn't real. "But you said you'd give me a ride--" 

"I lied." 

"Turn around! Barbara, I've gotta get there tonight. If I ever meant anything to you, you have to let me go--" 

And that must be the drink talking. Because sober, Jim's not stupid enough to pull some romcom shit like that. "Nice try." Like they hadn't been to hell and back together enough times to recognize when the other was about do something incredibly stupid because they were headstrong and hurting. "Why do you have to get there tonight?" 

"I have to tell Bruce-- I have to tell him—” 

"Like hell you have anything you need to tell anyone in your state, much less an eleven-year-old." 

"He's twelve," Jim replies petulantly. 

"Oh, well that changes everything." 

Jim turns away, stares out the window. 

Barbara sighs. Her mother was a lot of things, but she was masterful at dealing with drunks. A skill she'd seen fit to pass on to Barbara. 

Maybe fifteen hadn't been the best time for that skill-sharing. But it was a hell of a lot more useful than how to make a proper table setting. 

This level of drunkenness, you had to treat someone a lot like a kid. 

This was why Barbara didn't have any kids. 

"So here's what gonna happen: I'm gonna drive us back to my apartment." She holds up a hand. "That part's not negotiable. But-- hear me out-- whether you tell me what's going on, that's up to you. I'm not gonna ask. But if you tell me, I won't tell Leslie I had to drag you out of the park day drunk. And I'll help you figure out some plan for dealing with this shit that doesn't involve traumatizing a little kid. Your call." 

.x. 

"So basically," Barbara says, leaning back against the couch, hands cupped around a mug of Chamomile tea, because something tells her she's gonna need that shit to get through this conversation, "Your career's going to shit and you're having an existential crisis? And you decide to throw all this in a _twelve-year-old orphan's_ lap?" 

Jim, for his part, is several glasses of water for the better and doesn't seem to be missing words like 'manor' from his vocabulary anymore. Barbara took that as a green light to start dealing with the clusterfuck at hand in earnest. 

Which is not to say she's won't let Jim stay sprawled across the couch with his legs on her lap while they figure shit out. 

Jim wipes a hand down his face. "I wasn't thinking straight." 

"Obviously." 

"I know, I know.” Jim’s running a hand over the back of his neck, not looking at her. “But I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe if I went to see Bruce—” he looks back up, meets her gaze again, “I could find out if I could actually go through with it. Look him in the eye and say I can't help him find his parent's killer. Because what Cobblepot's asking-- I don't think I can do. But I don't know if I could do _that_ either." 

Barbara cocks her head to the side. “You're sure that was all it was about?” 

“The hell are you trying to say?” 

“You sure you weren't looking for advice from Bruce, too?” 

“What? No-- I—” he throws up his hands. “I don't even know. I went to Harvey's bar for a drink, and then I had a few—” 

“Did you tell Harvey what was going on?” 

“Yeah.” _Obviously_ goes unsaid. 

“And?” 

“And he said he didn't think I could do it.” 

“So, what-- you were gonna walk all the way to Wayne Manor to prove him wrong?” 

“No! I just-- Harvey's great, but he's not exactly unbiased when it comes to Oswald. He doesn't like him. At all. And he's got good reasons, but I just needed—” 

“Someone who didn't have that history with him? What about your fucking girlfriend?” Barbara says, voice rising. “You couldn't have that conversation with her? Christ, Jim, does she even know you got fired?” 

"Yeah,” he grits out. “I told her the day it happened.” His face says, _of course I did,_ what kind of animal do you think I am? But then he opens his mouth, shuts it again, clenches his jaw. Ostensibly remembering he doesn't exactly have the best track record for that sort of shit. "She said she was _happy_. Said it meant we could go anywhere, that there was nothing tying us to the city anymore. She has no idea--" 

"Maybe because you didn't fucking tell her?” Barbara says, bringing both hands in front of her to gesticulate with, as much to emphasize the point as to make sure she doesn’t end up with a vice grip n Jim’s legs instead from the anger. “Did you even try to explain, or did you just make that face and shut down?" 

"I don't have a face I make-- dammit, that's not important. I was just thinking-- what's the point? If we have that different an idea of what we want, how we see everything, then what's the point of trying, of drawing it out?" 

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you care about each other enough to try to work shit out? Or at least have a conversation about whether you can? 

“Unless you don't. But if that's the case, you still need to fucking _tell her that._ ” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “Okay. That was harsh, maybe. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not, because you need to deal with this. But do you need to deal with that part right now, or can we deal with this Penguin thing first?” 

“No.” Fists still clenched by his sides, but voice deflated, like some of the fight’s gone out of him. 

“Ok, so your main hangup here is that you really want your job back, but you're not willing to threaten some business associate of his to get it?” 

“It's not just-- I'd be actively participating in the crime and corruption I'm trying to fight! I don't know if I'd even deserve to have my job back after if I did that.” 

“Okay, sure. But you're not above asking for his help, but you don't wanna do the specific thing he's asking you for?” 

“I—” 

“Because you seem kind of squeamish about what he's asking you to do. You ever think about how he's gonna go about getting you your job back?” 

“I—” Jim sounds truly uncertain for the first time in the conversation. “I don't know. I didn't ask.” 

Barbara knows it’s not the right time for it, won’t help her case here, but she can’t help suppress the huff of laughter. “Anyone else, I'd say well done, because you're giving yourself plausible deniability. But,” she goes on, face serious again, “With you, I'm more concerned about whether you could live with yourself. 

“You seem to have a problem with shaking a guy down for money on Cobblepot's behalf. Okay, fair enough. But he's gonna be asking Loeb to do two things he doesn't want to. There's gonna be some threatening involved. Maybe some violence. Are you okay with that? 

“I-- I don't fucking know.” He pauses, looks down and seems to notice for the first time the death grip he has on one of the pillows on the couch. Releases it slowly. Looks back up, eyes wide; looks back at Barbara like he’s an accused man on the witness stand and she’s judge, jury, and executioner. “If it would mean I could get back in the fight, and with Loeb gone, maybe the whole police force could actually get somewhere, be something—” 

“Okay,” she says, holding his gaze, tone neutral. 

“No, it's not okay! None of this is fucking okay.” And he’s back to pulverizing the throw pillow. “The man I was when I first came back to Gotham? He never even would’ve considered this. But now I am, God help me. 

"And I hate that I’m learning how to work in this city, that now I understand the only way to change things is by wading through lies and bodies and smiling the whole damn time. I hate that I want anything enough to even consider being part of that. Even if the thing I want is an end to all of that.

“When I came back, I wanted to fix this city. But she’s so sick, Barbara. Sick in a way I hadn’t imagined. Sick in a way that infects everyone who lives here, no matter how hard you try to fight it. And after everything-- hell, I don't even know if I can fix her. I don’t even know if I still have a right to be part of that, if I have a strong enough grip on anything I believe to weather her storm and come out the other side as anything but a monster.” 

She waits a beat, but he doesn’t say anything else. “You done?” 

“What else is there to say?” 

She holds up a hand, placating. “Just checking. Well, there's no quick fix for the soul-searching bit. That's on you. But you’re not a monster. And if you keep doing the work of struggling with all this morality shit as you keep working to fix Gotham—as long as you’re doing that, I think that’s a sign you still have some goodness in you, don’t you think?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, because that’s not gonna be a productive conversation. That’s between Jim and his God, and at this point in her life, she’s not in any position to be anyone’s moral compass. “The Penguin thing, though. We can talk about that. What did he say, exactly, when he asked for the favor?” 

“What? Why?” 

“Humor me.” 

“He said—” A long exhale and another vicious jab at the pillow before he goes on, “He said he wanted me to prove our friendship means something.” 

“Okay, good. That’s good. I think I might have a plan C for you. Wanna hear it?” 

“Better than advice from a twelve-year-old.” 

"I think," Barbara says, grinning, "You should make him a counteroffer." 

"What?" Incredulous, but not angry. Actually willing to hear her out, which she’s going to count as a victory. 

“Think about it. If this whole thing is about your _friendship_ , he doesn't give a shit about getting that guy to pay up in particular. That's what he's got hired muscle for. It was just convenient. And served its purpose.” 

“Which was?” 

“Proving you were willing to do something for him, just because he asked. Damn the consequences, like you usually are when you care about something.” 

She can see his face fall from curious interest to resignation as she speaks, ending on something that might be close to defeat if it were anyone else. “Anything he'd want, though it's gonna be the same. He's a mob boss. And I'm not going to break the law for him.” 

“There's nothing else you can think of that he might want from you?” 

“The hell's that supposed to mean?” Jim says, dangerous edge to his voice. 

“I only met him once. But I saw the way he looked at you. He'd fuck you twelve ways before Wednesday, quite literally, if you let him.” 

“Barbara, if you're suggesting—” 

She rolls her eyes. “Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you.” 

“That's _the worst idea._ Legitimately,” he says, punctuating the word by slicing his hand through the air as he says it, “the worst idea I've ever heard.” 

She tilts her head to the side, braces one arm on the back of the couch to lean towards him. “Is it?” 

“He'd be offended by the very idea. If it's my favor that I'd fuck him, it means I wouldn't deign to otherwise. And he's literally killed people over matters of pride, so I don't think—” 

Barbara snorts, pretty indelicately, if she’s honest. “Tell you what, I'm gonna leave the part where _that's_ the argument you lead with-- and not, you know, that you don't want to fuck him or that you have a _girlfriend_ alone for right now, because I think you need to take this one mess at a time. 

“And yeah, no shit, Sherlock. That's why you have to make him believe that that part's not the favor.” She holds up her left hand, palm-up. “Either it's not that you don't want to fuck him, but that you didn't want to complicate your business relationship so you were holding back. Or,” she says, holding up the right the same way, “You didn't want to give him control, but for the favor, you'll do whatever he wants. Something like that. Apparently you two are on a first-name basis, so I’m sure you could figure out what he’d want to hear. So, what do you think?” 

“You’re serious?” he asks. She nods. Jim sighs, wipes a hand down his face. “That might actually work. I mean,” he says, holding up a hand to head off any reply from Barbara, “It's also dangerous, and immoral, and manipulative. And just not a good idea. At all.” 

“So you'll think about it?” If her grin’s a bit smug, she thinks she’s entitled to that. 

“I don't see that happening.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

He takes a swipe at her shoulder with the throw pillow. “Isn't this the part where you tell me not to do anything tonight, while I'm all keyed up? Because I'll do something I regret?” 

“You and I both know I can't stop you from being a dumbass if you set your mind to it But you're welcome to crash here tonight if you need the space to think things over.” 

Jim smiles then. And she knows then that he may be a mess now, but it'll be all right. 

“Oh, and Jim?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks for telling me. I think we can chalk that up to personal growth, huh?” He rolls his eyes at her instead of responding. 

She dislodges Jim's legs from her lap, kisses him on the cheek as she gets up off the couch. 

“Where're you going?” 

“I have a date. And I can't show up like this, can I?” She gestures to her still damp hair, the loose-fitting sweater she’d thrown on over skinny jeans. 

She's almost all the way to the bathroom when Jim says, "Thank you." Almost too quiet for his voice to carry. But head turned to face her over the back of the couch to look at her, his eyes are open and earnest. "I mean it." 

She smiles, equally earnest. "You can make it up to me over lunch tomorrow. I'm gonna need a pick-me-up after therapy." 

"Just like old times, huh?" 

"Yeah. Except you're not trudging through the therapy part anymore. You just get to show up for free food." 

"And good company." He’s smiling again. 

"You better be there. Unless there's a murder that happens right in front of you on the way over--" 

"I will. Scout’s honor.” 

“You weren’t actually a boy scout.” 

“I’ll be there. Go get ready,” he says, waving her towards the bathroom. “I’d tell you you already look like a rock star, but _someone_ explained to me that it’s more than that. That the process is important, too. 

“For what it’s worth, though,” he says, face serious again, “I think Renee’s a good woman. So I don’t think you really need all the armor.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I have to rescue you from the park, you lose your giving-out-life-advice privileges for the day.” But she’s smiling as she leaves the room. 


	2. Libertine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's still in denial about the events in the promos for when Gotham comes back? Seemed like a great time to focus my very canon-divergent story instead. Also, sorry about the wait, and if you're reading this, thanks for sticking it out! And it probably goes without saying, but comments are my favorite.

At the sound of Barbara's heels clicking across the hardwood, Jim starts to push himself up from where he'd been laying face-down on the couch. If he'd been in that position since the end of their conversation, well. It was Italian leather and very comfortable. And also, if he got up, he was gonna have to face reality again. 

He gets up on his knees, turns to look at Barbara over the back of the couch. She'd changed into a shimmery top and leather skirt, hair in the sort of blowout he knows takes fucking ages from back when they were roommates. She looks incredible, of course. Barbara smiles when he tells her as much, then cuffs him on the back of the head. "No calls in the middle of my date unless you're bleeding out in a gutter, okay?" 

Jim smiles at that. "Yes, ma'am." 

"I'll probably be back around eleven." She's turning away from him again, slipping into a coat and then digging in a purse that's not the one she was holding a second ago, likely looking for her keys. 

"I'll probably be right where you left me." 

"I think that might be for the best," Barbara says gently, looking back at him. 

Then the door clicks shut, and Jim's alone with his thoughts. Sure, the past hour or so Barbara hadn't actually been in the same room. But even the music she'd been blasting, some kind of weird synth pop, and the muffled sounds of drawers opening, hangers and clothes getting thrown onto the floor, the blow dryer, that was a reminder there was someone else here to help shoulder this. Now it's way too goddamn quiet. 

He flips on the TV. News, a bloody double homicide in the by the docks. Golf. Wrestling. A sitcom couple bickering, the jokes forced, the laugh track too loud. 

Fifteen minutes in and it feels like the walls are closing in on him. Which is fucking ridiculous. Because Barbara's apartment is a castle, all high ceilings and huge windows. But he needs to get out. Out of the apartment, out of his head-- he stuffs a spare key in his pocket and heads out to the street, no destination in mind. 

It's fucking freezing. A blast of wind catches him head-on as he makes the front gate of the apartment, but he doesn't bother zipping up his jacket or crossing his arms against the cold. It feels good. 

But being out in the Diamond District's worse than Barbara's apartment. Playground of the shakers and movers, the men with more money and power than God, enough influence to remake Gotham in whatever image they wanted, to actually fix her. And they didn't want to. Didn't even try to beyond perfunctory attendance at benefits, signatures on checks for charities, sound bites at galas or ribbon-cutting ceremonies about how they were helping to revitalize the city. 

A balding man in a sharp-cut coat knocks into his shoulder. Thinking Jim should know his place, no doubt, know to get the hell out of his way. Because he was a somebody, and without his badge, Jim was just some schmuck in a wrinkled suit. 

Dismissed. Such a nice, clinical word for a sucker punch with brass knuckles. 

Fifty-two days as a beat cop. Fifty-two days of beating his head against the glass, clenching his fist, going off on his coworkers, barely having the energy for anything else once he got off the clock. The only things keeping him going were the anger and the mission, the sharp burn to be back the ring. 

And now this. Maybe Harvey was right when he said you couldn't get anywhere in the city if you played by the rules. 

Another block and he's out of the Diamond District, thank fuck. 

The theatre district sprawls ahead of him, a mess of lights and sparkles and laughter. He's been here before, of course. Even been to a few shows with Barbara, when she'd been in the thick of therapy and needed it. 

He can't even remember when the last time he and Lee went out to dinner was. Drunk and lost earlier that day, the first number he'd thought to dial wasn't hers. And he knows why. 

Barbara had always been inquisitive, almost belligerent, when it came to details about his life. Pushed and prodded until he was honest, even when he couldn't be honest with himself. Lee was the opposite. Said she trusted him, asked if he wanted to talk, but didn't press the issue. Considerate, healthy way to handle things, probably. Made it easy to lie by omission. Each time, he told himself he'd come clean the next time, when he hadn't had a hellscape of a week, when he could fucking remember to get her flowers or something to soften the blow. Each time, the guilt stung a little less. 

A young couple holding hands nearly runs him off the sidewalk. Barely spare him a glance, faces turned towards each other, the man laughing at something the woman said. Must be new to Gotham. Because a week here will teach you to share the fucking sidewalk. 

Lee would probably say it was cute. 

But Lee spent her days patching up a bunch of batshit crazy inmates and now spends her days picking apart Gothamites who've been shot, stabbed, strangled, hacked to bits by their own neighbors, families, lovers. And she's still kind and cheerful and patient. Still doesn't have any dents in her moral compass, doesn't hesitate to call out the sins around her, isn't too proud to hold out a hand to the sinners anyway. Still flashes that mischievous smile that makes Jim want to fuck her right there, up against the wall. Still feels something when the latest tragedy comes on the evening news. Still tucks herself up against his side when he finally comes to bed, falls asleep again within minutes. 

He likes all those things about her, and he hates himself for that. 

Because being with Lee, accepting her kindness, having her to hold onto when he feels like his tethers to something, to anything else, are coming underdone right under his hands-- he doesn't know what he'd do without that. As hellish as the past few months have been, all the whiskey, the dark thoughts, the anger and the stupid shit it's made him do, he knows it would've been ten times worse without her. 

He knows it's selfish to want that, to want her, to keep holding on when he has the sinking feeling of falling short every time she says it's okay when he knows damn well that it's not. When his problems and their problems are looming on the horizon and he doesn't have the fucking energy to deal with them in any way that's gonna stop this from ending in a crash. Just because he wants someone to hold onto, and despite everything, she wants him. 

A man with short black hair and a well-tailored overcoat-- he can only see his back from here-- catches his eye. The blare of a Mercedes' horn is about the only thing that stops Jim from wandering into oncoming traffic to follow him across the street. 

It's not Oswald. It never is. He doesn’t need a closer look to be sure-- as soon as the crowd around the man thins, all trying to fit on a narrower sidewalk, he can see the man's gait is all wrong. 

And he’s been telling himself it's just his cop reflexes. That it's natural for him to react immediately when he sees a well-known criminal on the street. But he knows he’s full of shit. 

Known he was in deep shit from the time Harvey'd popped open the trunk and he'd seen Oswald inside, pale as a sheet and covered in blood and still so full of fight. Just hadn't known exactly why. Not yet. 

Casually manipulative, conniving, silvertongued, with a moral compass that only points to what he wants most. But also challenging and sarcastic, ambitious and clever. With perfect cheekbones, with an uncanny talent for reading people and an annoying knack for winding Jim up, getting under his skin. 

A bit like Barbara. Or maybe a lot like Barbara. Maybe just his type. And maybe he'd cursed God and fate and cruel coincidence for putting someone like that right in front of him but on the wrong side of the battlefield. But he'd had work, real work, and that had been a good distraction, in the beginning. And then he'd had Lee, and that had been good, too. It hadn't been a tough choice to push it down, not risk losing what he had. 

And now? Now he's not sure of anything anymore. 

He stops dead when he gets to a fire escape. The brick building behind is unremarkable enough, but he'd know it anywhere. The lights, the noise continue to flow around him, and this time he has the sense to move closer to the wall so he doesn't block the sidewalk. 

It feels wrong. Bruce Wayne's parents were shot dead in front of him right here less than a year ago. And now? There's no marker, no recognition. Nothing to tell the happily distracted passerby that a tragedy, an injustice happened there. 

Renee and Crispus, they'd agreed to take over the case before, when he'd-- but that was different. He'd thought he was gonna _die_. 

The look he's seen in Bruce's eyes-- he recognizes that look. Had the same one on his own face looking up at the principal, looking up at a policeman a few times, when he'd been caught red-handed and the last thing he was gonna do was back down, apologize. He knows Bruce is gonna go after his parents' killer all by himself if Jim doesn't find him first. Knows he's eleven and still some of kind of hopeful about justice being served and if Jim doesn't come through, if he can't even get this single, incredibly important thing right-- 

He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his palms into his eye sockets. Breathes in, breathes out. Opens his eyes, looks around. It isn't far to Oswald's club from here anyway. 

.x. 

When Jim walks into Oswald's club, he's assaulted by the lights, the noise, the pressing crowd of people half his age. The big draw seems to be the band onstage, helmed by a girl with long, platinum blonde hair and what appears to be a rosary around her neck. 

Objectively, Jim knows she's not winking at _him_. That the gesture's intended for the crowd at large, to keep them engaged while her drummer takes a swig from his water bottle. But it feels like she's staring right at him, straight through him. If he was looking for a sign that he should walk right back out, that was it. Only he doesn't. 

He scans the club for Oswald. Comes up blank and settles for Butch, who he spots at the bar. But not talking to anyone, not even sparing a glance for the girl next to him who's the sort of drop-dead gorgeous that makes you walk straight into the wall because you're staring. Which is definitely weird. But so's the fact that he's been working for Oswald, so he tables it for some time when he's not trying to make his move before he loses his nerve. 

Butch spots him on his way over, motions a bit jerky as he stands and walks over to meet Jim halfway. "You're looking for the boss, right? Gabe will be happy to show you up." 

Gabe, over by the edge of the people there for the music and apparently on crowd control duty, rolls his eyes, but his face is placid again by the time Butch turns back to look at him. He motions for Jim to follow him, and they both head over towards stairs on the far side of the club, away front the action. 

When they reach the landing, Gabe takes Jim's arm with a little more force than necessary, the _stop, wait here_ going unsaid. Gabe continues down the hallway ahead, knocks on a door Jim can't see, and disappears inside. Jim bites the inside of his cheek. And waits. If Gabe's talking to Oswald, Jim can't hear a thing, just the band starting up their next song. It's clear the singer's got the pipes to back up her stage presence. 

And then Gabe's back in front of him, expression stormy. Raises his eyebrows at Jim in a silent threat, although Jim's not quite sure what it's meant to discourage him from doing. "The boss'll see you now." He turns away, walks back towards the stairs. 

"James!" Oswald jumps up from the table when Jim comes in, barely touched glass of red wine in front of him already forgotten. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, have a seat." It’s the same room as he'd met Oswald in before—wood paneling, massive table with a high-backed chair Jim suspects no one but Oswald’s allowed to sit in, fireplace in the corner. But apparently it’s not just where he holds court, since he’d been alone. 

Jim would rather stand, rather put more distance between him and Oswald, but he’d also rather not piss Oswald off before he can even tell him why he's here. He takes the seat to Oswald's left. Oswald returns to his chair, laces his hands in front of him, rests them on the table. With the firelight casting shadows, the planes of his face are thrown into sharp relief, and his eyes glow fever-bright. "Have you reconsidered my offer?" 

"No." 

Oswald's smile shrinks to the smaller, polite one. "Then I'm afraid I'm a bit confused about the nature of your visit. Unless this is a social call?" He doesn’t miss the sarcasm. 

"Not exactly." Jim crosses his arms, raises his chin. "I'm here to make a counteroffer."

Oswald laughs, bright and sharp. "Oh, James," he says. "I don't think you understand how this works now. I," he continues, laying a hand on his chest, "Am calling the shots here. Because I have something you want, and you have no other way to get it. For you to waltz in here and start making demands, the way you’re wont to do, you'd have to have something _I_ want." 

Jim grins. "I do." 

"Oh?" 

"Me." 

Oswald cocks his head to the side. "In what capacity?" 

"Any you'd like. I'm sure you can think of a few ways you'd want me. If you can't, I've got a few ideas--" 

"Are you drunk?" Oswald says sharply. 

"Stone cold sober." 

Oswald's mouth twists. "I don't need your _generosity_ ," he spits. 

"That's not the generous part. I'm not very good at following orders. But I can see you like to be in control, in charge-- I'd let you." A deep breath. And then he holds Oswald's gaze and says, "Anything you want." 

Jim thinks he can hear Oswald's breath catch, but maybe it's just the crackle of the fire. And then Oswald laughs. When Jim doesn't respond, just keeps staring back at him, Oswald's expression sobers. "You're serious. Did someone give you a concussion?" 

"Someone helped me get my head on straight." 

Oswald snorts. "You mean someone put you up to this." 

"No, I--" 

"So you came to this idea entirely on your own, then?" 

"Why does it matter, if that's what I want?" 

Oswald's laughter is sharp, humorless. "How can you expect me to believe that that's what you want? I've shown you nothing but friendship and kindness. You had ample time to demonstrate your interest. And instead? You've slighted me, rejected me. Left me to die, most recently. And now, now that it's _advantageous_ , you decide you like me and expect me to take your word for it as the gospel? What kind of fool do you take me for?" 

_Fuck._ Jim doesn't have any practice dealing with Oswald's pride. But he can't take it back, couldn't back down now if he wanted to. 

"You're right." That gets Oswald's attention. Buys him a bit of time as he gapes at Jim. What would Barbara do? Think about Oswald's weaknesses, if there were any he could exploit here. Easy. Same as his own. Letting emotion take the driver's seat. He's just as impulsive, just as reckless as Jim is when something sets him off. 

"Nothing I could say is gonna make you believe me." No one around Oswald tells the truth. He must've learned to put more stock in things that couldn't lie. Where their eyes went. What they did with their hands. When their hearts raced. "So kiss me. If that doesn't convince you, I'll do the favor you asked for. No questions asked." 

It's a bluff, of course. But that's the point, projecting the confidence that he won't need to do the other favor he's still not sure he could stomach. 

Oswald doesn't say anything. Jim’s stopped breathing, can only stare, and wait. Watch the light play across Oswald’s face and wonder what he’s thinking. After what feels like ages, Oswald says, "Very well." Voice steady, but fists clenched at his sides. 

Jim swallows. Runs his tongue over his lower lip, half nerves, half anticipation. But he's never been one to halfass anything. So he crosses the room, gingerly sets Oswald's glass down on the opposite side of the table. Walks back over to where Oswald sits, deliberately slowly. Swings his legs up onto the table. Spreads them, one of either side of Oswald. 

Oswald inhales sharply when Jim's fingers brush his face, but Jim doesn't let that slow him down. He lets his hand rest along Oswald's jaw, thumb just below the corner of his mouth. Bends forward, bringing his face down to Oswald’s level. And then stops. Leaves maybe an inch and a half of space between them. Close enough that he can pick out every one of the freckles on Oswald's nose, feel his breath on his lips. 

And then he waits. Wants the tension, the anticipation. But more than that, wants Oswald to want this, to want it badly enough to initiate it himself. 

A few more seconds pass with just the crackle of fire and their own shallow breathing. Until Oswald leans forward and kisses him. And Jim thinks, hell, this just might work. 

Oswald's lips are light on his own, tentative. Trying to suss out if Jim's fucking with him. Waiting to see how he will respond without giving anything up in return. 

Jim kisses him back, hard. And then Oswald's hands are tangling in Jim's hair, and he’s pressing in closer, gasping when Jim bites his lip. Again when Jim starts kissing down his neck. He can feel Oswald's pulse jumping as he leaves a trail of kisses down to where his collar stops him from continuing, and he has to try real hard to remind himself Oswald can't have a visible hickey when he walks out of here. 

"Okay," Oswald says, a little breathless. Jim straightens to look down at Oswald. He's flushed, but the steely resolve in his eyes is the same as always. He bites his tongue, hopes it stops his face from doing that comically surprised thing it really wants to do right now. Oswald seems to take his silence for confusion, and continues. "I agree to your terms--" 

Jim grins, slides his hands up Oswald's thighs. "Then why are we still talking?" 

"Stop." 

Jim withdraws his hands. Rests his palms on the table behind him and leans back on them. "Why?" 

"I need to know that won't use this against me." 

Jim laughs. "Honestly? What's my motive for telling anyone?" 

"That's not what I mean." 

"What, you think I'm gonna bang mob secrets out of you?" 

Oswald rises, turns his back to Jim. "Anything I do, anything I say. The fact that you're offering this." His hands clasped behind his back, showing a calm and decorum Jim would bet his face can't. "We already have a precarious relationship. I need your word that this won't damage that beyond repair, that you won't use any of those things against me if we find ourselves at cross purposes." 

Jim laughs. Oswald whirls around to face him, face contorted in anger. Jim's expression sobers. "Aren't we always? At cross purposes, I mean." 

Oswald grabs Jim's chin between his thumb and fingers, forces Jim to look at him. 

"That's not an answer." 

Jim's fairly sure his heart's trying to beat out of his chest by way of his throat. "Okay." he manages. "You have my word." 

Oswald's hand falls away, but his eyes continue to bore into Jim's. "Swear it," he says, eye manic. "Swear it on your father's grave." 

"Don't you _dare_ bring my father into this," Jim snarls. Stops himself, tries that again. Because he needs this to work. "Besides, I've got a better idea. Take a few pictures of me as the night goes on and hang onto them, if you don't trust me to keep my word." 

The slight tilt of Oswald's head is the only tell that he's surprised. "You realize I could blackmail you with those." Jim can recognize an out when he sees one. But Oswald's eyes have gone dark. 

"Yeah, you could." But he wants Oswald's hands on him, now. "So consider it a show of trust between friends." 

Oswald smiles at that. "And one more thing--" 

"Jesus fucking Christ, at this rate, we're still gonna be sorting out semantics when the sun comes up--" 

And then Oswald's grabbing his chin again, using the grip to drive Jim backwards til he feels the hardwood of the table against his back. "It's _important_." 

"Okay, fine." If he sounds breathless, it's only the surprise. Definitely not the manhandling, or the places it sends his mind. Oswald draws back his hand, but under the intensity of Oswald’s gaze, he still feels pinned. "What's so goddamn important?" 

"At any point in the evening, just say the word, and I'll stop. No questions asked. Do you understand me?" 

"Yeah, crystal clear. Are we done with--" 

"Preliminary terms? Yes, I should think so. I will return shortly. Feel free to help yourself to the wine." Oswald turns on his heel and makes for the door. 

Once he's alone, Jim lets his eyes fall shut, tries to catch his breath. Eyes the bottle of wine Oswald mentioned, no doubt a dozen rungs about his pay grade. Which isn’t usually something he’d pass up, but something tells him he's gonna want to be sober for this. _So you can remember it_ a small voice says. Which is when he knows he definitely needs some wine. 

Oswald doesn't say anything when he comes back and sees Jim sitting on the opposite end of the table, sipping from his Oswald’s glass. He doesn't need to. The theatrical sigh gets his point across just as well. 

"You said to help yourself to the wine, and there was only was glass--" So maybe it's a flimsy excuse and he knows it. 

"You're a _detective_. I'm sure you could've found another one--" So maybe he likes getting a rise out of Oswald. So maybe he liked him pinning him to the table earlier even better, is angling for him to do it again. 

Jim's spreading his legs again before he realizes he's doing so. "Maybe I had a craving and just couldn't wait." So maybe he's a bit buzzed, more from the anticipation than the few sips of wine. 

Oswald purses his lips, but the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. And he crosses the room to step in between Jim's legs. "Are you going to be this difficult all night?" 

"I thought--" Oswald's decided now's an opportune time for running his hands up Jim's thighs, and he needs a moment to remember how breathing works. "I thought you were supposed to be clever." 

Jim can practically hear the gears turning in Oswald's head. His eyelids dip and he huffs a laugh. "You're waiting for orders. Like a soldier." When Jim doesn't dispute this, Oswald gives him a sharp smile, steps back a few paces. "Strip." 

Jim could undress faster, he thinks, as he pulls his tie loose around his collar, starts in on the buttons on his shirt. Could do it with military precision in a minute or less if he put his mind to it. But Oswald's eyes follow the path of each article of clothing, flick back to Jim and along each inch of skin he bares. And maybe he wants Oswald to wait for it. To tell him to get on with it or lose patience and come finish the job himself. He doesn't, just waits til Jim's clothing is in a pile around his feet, his skin prickling with goosebumps because the faint heat from the fire isn’t much help. 

But there's an edge to Oswald’s voice, impatience and something else, when he speaks again. "Against the wall. Hands behind your back." Voice commanding and enough to make Jim weak at the knees, but if his pupils are blown, at least Oswald can't see, now his face is pressed up against the wood paneling. 

"I'm going to tie your hands back now." Voice authoritative, but Jim recognizes that this is Oswald giving him fair warning, an out if he wants it. He doesn't. 

The fabric of his tie is soft as Oswald loops it around his wrists. And then there's the touch of his fingertips to Jim's pulse point, on his left wrist, and he fairly sure he's stopped breathing. He realizes belatedly that Oswald is tightening the restraint and his fingers are there to make sure it's tight enough that Jim can't slip loose, but won't cut off his circulation. His hands move to Jim's right wrist to do the same, and then he loses the contact entirely. Hears the click of well-made shoes as Oswald steps back. Then the sound of one, two flashes as Oswald snaps pictures with his phone. The rustle of fabric as he pockets it. 

The click of shoe heels again. Oswald's breath on his neck, just for a few moments. Until Oswald's hands are on his hip, his ribs, turning him around roughly. And then his mouth is on Jim's, giving him a kiss that's more teeth than lips as he presses Jim up against the wall. Jim thinks he can feel the tilt of his hips as Oswald shifts his weight to his good leg, before he shoves his other knee between Jim's legs and presses upwards, and that's about when Jim stops thinking entirely. 

Jim shivers as Oswald's hands skim down his sides. Can't help but to arch into the contact as his fingers trace the V of his hips. Oswald moves his knee away, and Jim bites his lip to stop himself from whining at the loss of contact. He gasps as Oswald's wraps his hand around his cock. Can feel himself growing hard embarrassingly quickly with the drag of Oswald's hand on him, but can't think beyond _more_ and _please_. 

And fuck, maybe he said that out loud, because Oswald's stepping back, smirking. He bites his lip, decides a healthy dose of shutting the hell up might be a good idea for the rest of the night. Oswald snaps another picture, crosses the room to set his phone next to his wine glass. 

"Hm, I think I'd like you back by the table." A beat, during which Jim makes no move. " _Now_ ," he adds, making it a proper command. Jim bites his lip harder, walks over to the edge of the longer side of the table. 

Oswald follows, turns him to face the table with a hand on his hip. His hand drifts back to trail over Jim's wrists, and then he's got his other hand on Jim's back, more forceful, bending him over the table. Cold, smooth mahogany presses into Jim's stomach, and he swallows, hard. 

"Do you need me to prepare you?" Oswald’s touch is gone, but a moment later, he appears in Jim’s line of vision again, on the other side of the table. He sets his suit on the back of a chair on the other side of the table, his shirtsleeves now rolled up to the elbows. Oswald doesn't wait for an answer before slipping out Jim's sight again. The clip of heels, and then Jim can feel the heat of Oswald's gaze on him again. 

There's a "no" on the tip of Jim's tongue, because he wants it rough and hard and _now_ \-- but he bites it back. He knows it's been a while. Doesn't even want to think about tomorrow, but knows it's all gonna be worse if he can barely fucking _walk_. "Yes," he says, voice hoarse to his own ears. 

"Yes what?" Volume saying he's right behind Jim, just out of reach. 

"Yes, I need you to prep me." 

"Better." Oswald makes no move to comply. 

The gears of Jim's mind grind, coming to a slow start. What was he-- _fucking christ_ , did he seriously want him to-- "Yes, _please_ ," Jim says, definitely not approaching a whine. 

"Of course." He can hear the smirk in Oswald's voice. 

There's the rustle of fabric. The quiet pop of a bottle opening. Oswald's hand comes to rest on Jim's waist, then skims down to rest on his ass. And then Oswald's scissoring him open, just one lube-slick finger at first, not gentle at all and not _enough_. 

"More," he gasps. "I need--" 

Oswald has the nerve to stop entirely. "Hm?" 

"I swear to fucking _god_ Oswald--" He clenches his fists, which doesn't have the same effect as clutching at sheets might, but it's gonna have to do. 

"Yes? What was it that you wanted?" 

"More. Three. I can take it." And then, remembering, " _Please_." 

Oswald obliges, and it's better, perfect really, and now he's crooking his fingers and _god_ it's taking willpower Jim didn't know he still had not to squirm, not to try to arch off the damn table. 

" _God_ , Oswald-- now, please--" 

"Excellent form, but I don't know--" 

"Fucking _christ_ \--" Oswald hasn't stopped this time, just picked up the pace instead, and Jim can't decide if that's better or worse, but it's making thinking _and_ talking really fucking hard. "You do know, you know exactly what-- I want you to fuck me." A pause to catch his breath, which is easier said than done. "Now. Please." 

"Mm." Oswald does stop then, removes his fingers entirely, and Jim's too far gone to bite back his whine when he loses the contact. 

There's the metallic pull of zipper, the shush of a softer fabric, maybe silk. The crinkle of a wrapper, the pop of a bottle again. Oswald's hand landing on the space between his shoulder and his neck, grip firm. And then Oswald's pushing into him, agonizing slowly, and Jim gasps, from the burn and the fullness and the _feel_ of it. 

A few seconds is all Jim gets to adjust, which is still too long to fucking wait, and then Oswald's pulling back and slamming into him. Jim knows he's gonna have bruises tomorrow, probably in the shape of the pads of Oswald's fingers from where he's holding on like it’s the ledge of a building he’s dangling off, and definitely from where his hipbones keep hitting the table. And he doesn't care. Wants it again, and harder. And maybe he's saying that, too, or maybe Oswald can guess from the way he's moaning, because he's doing just that. 

Now Oswald's got his other hand in Jim's hair and he's pulling, hard. And the sting of his scalp, and the fullness, and the breathy little noises Oswald keeps making-- Jim barely registers that he's doing a shit job of keeping his mouth shut, _fuck_ and _Oswald_ slipping out easily between the gasps and moans. 

When Oswald wraps a hand around Jim’s cock, the drag of his hand in time with the thrusts of his hips is almost too much. Sends Jim tipping over the edge, vision a mess of bright spots and any rational thought forced out by the waves of pleasure. A few more thrusts, almost painful in the wake of his climax, now that everything just feels _more_ , and Oswald's following him. 

Seconds pass as they both come down, let their breathing even out. Oswald’s hands come to brace against the table on either side of Jim, and Jim can guess that it’s still an effort for him not to just collapse on top of him. Jim realizes he doesn’t know what’s gonna happen next, that he hadn’t really gotten that far. But now, as his vision's clearing, the gears in his mind start going again, a mile a minute, as usual. Would Oswald want to take him to bed, curl up against his side and fall asleep that way? Simply relocate to the bedroom for the sake of having a slightly more practical location for round two? Pour him a drink and take him again, right here, against the wall this time, or on his knees as Oswald sat with his legs wide in that throne of a chair he favored? Jim did say _anything_. 

But Oswald just climbs off. Jim can hear the clicks of his shoes as he steps back from the table, the pull of a zipper and rustle of clothing as he puts himself back together. "Your favor,” Oswald says, voice impressively level as he shrugs his jacket back on. “Loeb out of the commissioner's office and your old job back. Consider it done." The click of shoes again, and then Oswald’s hands are on him again, untying him. He hands Jim his tie and a handkerchief. Goes to retrieve his glass of wine, stands in front of the fireplace sipping it, back to Jim. 

Dismissed. Jim pushes himself up, already feeling the stiffness of his back, the bruises, the soreness that's gonna make sitting for any length of time a bitch for at least another day. Cleans himself up, walks over to retrieve his clothes. Dresses in silence. 

Doesn't bother straightening his suit, which wasn't in the best shape before, anyway. Just accepts that his hair is a lost cause. But hell, who knows if the room's soundproofing extends to anything past a whispered conversation. Maybe everyone here already knows what he just did. 

Jim's crossed the room, slinging his tie around his collar without even trying to tie it. Is right in front of the door, hand on the doorknob. Even if his mind's not at its sharpest right now, he knows he should get the hell out of there. 

He hesitates. "You know--" He starts again, voice steadier this time. "You know I wouldn't have left you there, right?" There's no need to elaborate. They both know exactly what he's talking about. 

And then there's only the crackle of the fire, the weight of the words settling over the room. Oswald's voice is cold, brittle when he finally speaks. "You've done your part of the favor. Now get out." 

Jim stumbles downstairs and then outside, presses his palms into his eyes. Tries to think where the closest cross street where he can hail a cab is. He could walk back to Barbara's from here. But he doesn't trust himself to go straight back there, is already itching to find a bar instead and drink himself blind. 

The cabdriver doesn't blink at Jim's disheveled hair, or when he gives him an address in the Diamond District. Just asks him for the cash up front, flips on the radio. Makes for a quiet ride back, just the radio announcer of the college basketball game, University of Gotham playing Syracuse.

No question when it came to Jim's allegiances. But the game had been hyped up as a great matchup, Gotham's aggressive, ruthless approach up against Syracuse's raw talent and disciplined technique. The other beat cops had been throwing out predictions and making bets since Monday, and for once, Jim had joined in. Had ten bucks riding on a Gotham win. 

And now the fourth quarter's on, with Gotham up 18 points and Syracuse playing sloppy basketball. It's pretty clear he's gonna get a payout on his bet. He should be happy. Should at the very least be thankful he's able to hear the game, because that's a damn miracle in and of itself. Only he doesn't, barely takes in any of the action. What's the point, if the dynamic that made it worth hearing's not there, if he already knows how it's gonna pan out? Gotham lands a three-point shot seconds before the buzzer, winning the game, and he feels nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: You know you write uncommonly slowly. Maybe write a shorter piece next? Or something without a sex scene, because you know you obsess over getting them right and they take you ages?
> 
> Also me: 5K. Perfect. And I'm still not done yet. I still need to wrap up that part where they fuck on the table. That bit's important.


End file.
